


Bring the Groceries

by gloss



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Chef AU, Ensemble - Freeform, M/M, Sheith69min
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 09:17:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16216058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: Paladin Bistro is so hot right now. Chef Keith loves his knives almost as much as he does their organic produce supplier, Shiro.Written for this week's#sheith69min, themes Autumn and cooking.





	Bring the Groceries

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to @orchis for completely failing to discourage me in the least.
> 
> title & some text from Digital Underground, "[Food Fight](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Nx76_hpSiE)".

The knife, flung halfway across the kitchen, landed with a _thud_ , followed by a high-pitched _twang-ang-ang_ in the wall five centimeters from Lance's head.

He blinked and started again. "Table Six says—"

"I heard what they _said_ ," Keith shouted, "So what I want to know is, how'd they lose their taste buds, huh? Was it some kind of mass accident? Rare neurological condition? What?"

"Hey, man," Hunk put in, nudging Keith slightly aside and wiping his hands on the towel tucked into his apron's ties. "Want me to go talk to them, Lance?"

"In a minute," Lance said. "Listen, Keith, I don't really give a shit what specific existential crisis you're going through tonight, could you just fucking cook the food and make sure it's edible? Is that too much to ask?"

"Hunk," Keith said.

"Yeah, buddy?"

"May I have my knife back?"

Hunk's eyes darted but he said, quite reasonably, even cordially, "Which knife would that be?"

"The one next to Lance's skull," Keith replied, every bit as calmly and reasonably.

"Ah, _that_ knife. Well, see, the thing is—" Hunk crossed his arms and tried to maneuver so he was blocking Keith's view of Lance and, by extension, the entire front of the restaurant. If only they could put, like, emotional blinkers on Keith, keep him focused on the very few things in this world that made him happy (or, at least, not shouty and homicidal) while blocking out every other goddamn thing. "In a moment, maybe. Why not taste some stock? Whip a little cream? Head into the cooler and see what kind of fun pharmaceuticals Pidge is cooking up? And in the meantime, your good friend Hunk—that's me, old buddy, old pal—I'll just mosey on out to the dining room and see what's what."

"You're going out to kiss Table Six's ass."

Hunk held up both his hands. "Hey, hey, no one said anything about rimming anyone at any table. Maybe I'll wander past, maybe we'll strike up a conversation, who knows? Who can say? Not I!"

"Fuck you," Keith said. 

"Are you mad?"

"No." Keith rifled through the drawer beneath his station for another knife. His favorite was in the wall, however, and no other blade felt quite so right in his hand. "Just disappointed."

"Boys!" Allura appeared behind Lance, her hair immaculate but eyes glittering and voice shrill. "Could we try, perhaps, to get through _one_ service without threats of violence?"

"Tell _him_ that," Lance grumbled. "I don't deserve this kind of treatment. I'm the interface guy! These stove jockeys have no clue what it's like, dealing with the public!"

"Oh, we have some idea," Hunk said. "No sweat, beaucoup tips, life of Reilly."

"Please," Allura said, so severely that it was less an appeal than shorthand for _shut the fuck up, all of you, the grown-up's talking_. Even Keith stopped what he was doing, and he usually couldn't stop fondling knives for love or money. "Lance, why don't you escort Hunk out to Table Six and get everyone acquainted?"

"I would _love_ to," Lance said breathlessly. "You coming, big guy?"

"Right behind you."

Allura stepped aside; the galley wasn't large enough for two people. When they'd passed, she rapped on the ticket display to get Keith's attention. "As for you..."

"Hey-ho, culinary whizkids!" a cheery voice sang out from the very back of the kitchen. A cold draft from the opened freight door sliced past Keith, but he didn't feel it. He was, in fact, suddenly as warm as the bubbling stock pot beside him. "Am I interrupting?"

"Hello, Shiro," Allura said. "Bit late for a delivery, isn't it?"

"Shiro!" Keith all but shouted at the same time. "Hey, man! You're back! You were just here! Weren't you just here? I could have sworn—"

Shiro held a big carton overflowing with root vegetables, their greenery lush and bright against his scrupulously clean plaid flannel shirt. His shoulders were so broad, he might have knocked off the pots and pans suspended on hooks on either side of the narrow kitchen path. He smiled and swayed, a bit confused about whom to answer first.

With her usual grace, Allura solved that difficulty for him. "It's wonderful to see you, I'll let you two..." She smiled and withdrew without finishing the sentence.

Keith's babble had died down, but unfortunately that meant that he was now half-staring, half-gaping at Shiro silently.

"Hi," Shiro said again. "Sorry to interrupt service." He looked around. "Where is everybody?"

Keith strode over to the wall and retrieved his knife. This should have given him time to compose himself, but when he returned, he was just as discombobulated by Shiro's presence as ever. "What're you doing here, anyway?"

He winced. That came out sounding far angrier and more aggressive than he'd meant.

Shiro, however, simply shrugged, the carton of vegetables rising with the motion. "We were talking kohlrabi and burdock, remember?" Keith nodded; the conversation had taken place this morning. "So I got into my head to convince you, and it's greenmarket day, you know."

"I know," Keith said. "That's why you're in the city. You're only ever here on market days. Any other time might corrupt your pure deep-green eco-conscious soul."

Shiro looked at him sharply, the expression brief and inquisitive. When Keith neither elaborated nor apologized, Shiro continued, "You need to taste it, that's all I can say. So after the market I went up to the botanical gardens, you know, and—"

"Shiro," Keith said. "I'm really glad you're here--" 

Surprised, Shiro grinned. "I'm glad you're glad."

"—but I'm _working_ , man. Are you going to scrub in and lend a hand or what?"

Shiro backed up, clutching the carton now like it was a shield, like he could defend himself. "Oh, no! No, no, of course not—"

"Didn't think so," Keith muttered.

"It's just that, see—" Shiro tucked the carton against his hip and, one hand freed, scratched the back of his neck. "My truck kind of got towed, see, and—"

Keith blinked, then blinked again. He was aware, suddenly and quite strongly, of how much his feet hurt. How the blisters on his left palm stung in the sweat. How much he needed a shave, and a shower, and several fat joints. How fucking good-looking Shiro was, playing the farmboy to the hilt, Mr. Fresh Air and Honest Living next to Keith the kitchen rat.

"You're stuck here," Keith said gently. He stepped forward and took the carton from Shiro's grasp. It was incredibly heavy and he tried not to stagger against its weight. "This is amazing."

"What is?"

"You," Keith said, "Stuck in the big bad city all on your lonesome."

Shiro's smile was narrower, quicksilver-fast, this time, nearly a smirk. "I was hoping _not_ to be on my lonesome, that's the thing."

Keith took a step closer. "You want to sleep over?"

"I can earn my keep." Shiro didn't break their locked gazes.

"Yeah? How?"

"I've been told I cook a mean meal," Shiro said, and by the time he'd finished speaking, they were standing maybe two inches from each other.

"Get a room!" Pidge said from somewhere behind Shiro; he was the size of three Pidges, so only her voice was perceptible. "One that's _not_ my kitchen!"

Keith stumbled backward and SHiro turned to let her pass. "Hey, Pidge, what's cooking?"

"Molecular innovations, what else?" she said briskly, carefully guiding a lighter-than-air glazed puff of... _something_ before her with a chopstick in either hand. "You ever thought a helium-saturated salmon Wellington could happen?"

"No," Shiro admitted, "Can't say I did."

"Yeah, well, stop dreaming, bro, because I did it and Monsieur Hervé This can kiss my sweet ass."

"How many servings is that?" Keith asked.

Pidge sighed. "It's not about servings, Keith, it's about the _challenge_."

"The challenge of keeping our doors open, yeah," he replied. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Shiro grinning; on anyone else, that expression would have infuriated Keith, got him ranting about patronizing bullshit. On Shiro, however, it just looked nice.

God, he was such a goner. It was honestly pathetic. Lance was right, he'd probably be better off...doing whatever it was Lance had suggested he do during their last argument. To be honest, Keith usually tuned him out and argued on autopilot.

"Hey, Shiro!" Hunk shouted as he returned to his station. "Hey, everyone, Shiro's here! You knew that, of course, I'm the latecomer, but anyway. Hey, Shiro!"

"Hunk," Shiro said warmly and they executed what looked to Keith like a really cool handshake that ended up in a half-hug. He'd like to hug Shiro just because. How come Hunk got to?

"You coming to help out or what?"

"No, no," Shiro said, "You know I don't do that any more."

"We're taking off," Keith said, sounding about a hundred times more decisive than he felt. Everyone, including Shiro, looked at him, shocked. The last time he'd cut work, it had been because he'd nearly severed two fingers, and he was back at his station before the restaurant closed. He untied his apron and tugged off his toque. "You got this, right, Hunk? Pidge?"

She nodded, mouth open, and behind her, Hunk did, too.

"Great, thanks, see you tomorrow." Keith punched Shiro's shoulder. "Don't forget your burdock, big guy."

Outside, the cold October air might as well have been Arctic on Keith's overheated skin. He stopped at the bottom of the freight ramp and took a deep breath. 

"Where to?" Shiro asked.

Keith started to light a cigarette before remembering how much Shiro hated the smell. Christ, this guy was so hot, handsome, and fucking _wholesome_ , he could probably wean Keith off nicotine with kiss and fervent _proud of you!_. "My place," he said. "You make me soup, I blow you, sound like a deal?"

"Well," Shiro said, switching the small sack of burdock root to his other hand so he could take Keith's. "I was kind of hoping to be on _my_ knees."

*

Paladin Bistro had opened small, just a whim of a ditzy socialite, or so it seemed at the time. But when hotshot chef Takashi Shirogane ate there once, then twice, then every night for a week, the buzz got louder and louder. By the time the month was out, the Paladin culinary collective had a reservations list extending into the next decade.

When Shiro retired suddenly and withdrew to the country to grow organic vegetables and "get back to what really mattered", his role as kitchen wunderkind was easily filled by Keith, Hunk, and Pidge. Hunk loved doing Iron Chef, Keith was a natural at shouting at journalists and making their palates sing, and Pidge...did whatever it was she did with aerators and Bunsen burners and, it was whispered, a flamethrower.

All that might as well have been ancient history now, in the narrow alley behind the bistro, between dumpster and fire escape. 

Shiro tightened his hold on Keith's hand. "What do you say, chef?"

Keith shook the hair out of his eyes, but he couldn't seem, no matter how hard he tried, to shake any sense into his head. Into his mouth. Shiro in his mouth. Him in Shiro's mouth!

"Fuck yeah," he finally said, lest Shiro think he was stroking out or losing his nerve or whatever. "Here?"

"I'm not having sex against a dumpster," Shiro said and there was so much tenderness in those blunt words that Keith's balance wavered and his head swam and somehow, with a strength he'd never felt before without a blade in his hand, he pulled Shiro close.

"Just some heavy petting," he said, mouth on Shiro's jaw, then chin. "We'll save the oral for indoors, like civilized people."

Shiro pushed his hand through the over-long hair, sodden with sweat, that curled into Keith's collar. "Sounds good," he said, "Let's do this."

Lobster and hot wings, rich and spicy things, Keith's mind was out in orbits while he blanketed himself head to toe against Shiro, one hand on Shiro's ass, the other clutching at the side of his flannel shirt. He was dirty and tired and stinky, but if Shiro didn't care, if, in fact, Shiro was making these high little groans that reverberated back down Keith's tongue, then Keith didn't care, either.

*

"See, that's what we needed all along," Hunk said to Lance when the last patrons had departed and they were sitting out on the ramp, sharing a joint and a beer. "Get Keith laid! Why didn't we think of that?"

"Because," Lance said, and took a deep drag, "We have better things to ponder. Like how to get _ourselves_ laid."

Hunk couldn't argue with the obvious genius of that, so he bumped his fist against Lance's and exhaled in a long, happy stream up to the sky.

Somewhere downtown, Keith was choking happily, spit running down his throat, Shiro's hands twisting in his hair as he moaned, and someone really needed to make a joke about eating organic, and _soon_.


End file.
